


Let Me Live (Or Let Me Love You)

by himbosamevans



Category: Glee
Genre: (or as slow as im willing to make it), Alternate Universe - College/University, Cheerleaders, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Rivals to Lovers, Slow Burn, assholes to lovers, in no mild terms.. they deadass hate each other.. but stick w me lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25497985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himbosamevans/pseuds/himbosamevans
Summary: Overall, Blaine’s life is pretty great right now.He’s in his senior year of college, immensely popular, head of one of the best collegiate cheerleading teams in the country, and he’s got a great GPA to boot. There's nothing that can bring him down.Except for the one, small stain on his life that is Sebastian Smythe.(Or: the glee enemies to lovers college cheerleading au nobody asked for)
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Sebastian Smythe
Comments: 26
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> dt elsie (killerleo) for being my no#1 cheerleader (ha) and being super encouraging in all of my writing and basically being the reason any of this is being written anyway. and also being my amazing, amazing beta reader ily :)
> 
> also, the NYU Violets _do_ exist, but the NYU White Dolphins don't. i made them up, and you can tell bc the name is shittier.

Blaine has always liked to be a _part_ of something, and the best part of being a part of something is being the most well-liked member.

For a little while, he’d found this solace in show choir: the adrenaline brought on by side-stepping in perfect time with fourteen other uniform-clad boys; the dopamine rush from a standing ovation after every single solo; the sense of personal satisfaction as the polite applause for the other teams turned into crowd-rippling, wall-rattling _roars_ for the Warblers as they won another Regionals title.

He’d thought it was unmatchable. He thought he’d peaked at age fifteen. He thought he could never top those feelings, that they were simply the best of the best, and his passions would never lie anywhere else.

Then his father lost his job his sophomore year, and he had to transfer from his private school to a public one without a glee club because money was tight, and he kind of felt hopeless. Without show choir, he felt like he’d been set adrift. He’d enjoyed other hobbies, too -- he was on the lacrosse and soccer teams, and he’d taken horse-riding lessons when he was younger, but none of them gave him that same addicting feeling. 

And then he discovered cheerleading.

It was accidental, really. The cheer coach at his high school, though effective, was also _completely_ insane, and upon discovering his sexuality within his first month, had coerced him into joining her cheer-squad as a “spritely, non-threatening gay” to sit girls on the shoulders of. He’d expected it to be only something to pass the time, something to meet new friends through, something to put on college applications.

And then he’d been really fucking good at it.

He was promoted to co-captain, and then a fully-fledged captain within his first year. His popularity at his new school skyrocketed. Nobody even cared that he was gay, because it meant the football players weren’t bothered that he was friends with all their girlfriends. 

Most of all, though, he loved flying. It was the only time his height was an _advantage_ for him; he was short enough and light enough that the girls could throw him and catch him with ease, and whenever he was in the air, posing, he felt like time moved in slow motion. The roar of the crowd when they saw the heights he reached, the ticking of the microseconds counting his airtime, the way the blood rushed to his ears as he fell and his whole body screamed with adrenaline; it was indescribable. It still _is_ indescribable.

He’s pretty sure cheerleading has brought him everything amazing about his life.

Five years after his first introduction to it, he’s in his senior year of college, immensely popular, head of one of the best collegiate cheerleading teams in the country, and he’s got a brilliant GPA to boot. His best friend is in a frat with some pretty cute guys, and his _other_ best friend has finally made it onto his cheer team (with only some light nepotism from himself), and, though it’s taken him three years to do so, he’s finally moved out of the college housing and into an apartment with her. 

He and Tina have been planning it for what feels like eons; there’s a rainy day fund jar in each of their dorms (and Sam’s frat house), a million snipped, glossy photos of rugs and chairs and wardrobes cut from magazines and pinned to their decoration mood board, and thirty Zoopla listings he’s had bookmarked on his laptop for months now.

They haven’t fully decorated it yet -- though this will be serviced after one trip to IKEA -- and they forgot to discuss who-brings-what cutlery, so there’s a million spoons and knives that won’t fit into the kitchen drawers -- but it’s all theirs. He feels on a high after the first night he sleeps there (so soundly, too, without the endless chatter that accompanies dorm life and the gentle thudding of a headboard a few rooms away), and there’s literally nothing that can bring him down.

Except for the one, small stain on his life that he can never seem to avoid. The one, small stain that was also brought on by cheerleading, that seems to be poisoning his beloved hobby from the inside out.

Sure, Blaine is the captain of the NYU Violets, multi-national winners and title-holders; however, they are not the only cheer team at NYU. Two years before Blaine enrolled, a secondary team was introduced to satisfy the overflow of student applicants and to provide more scholarship opportunities for those interested in cheer: the White Dolphins. 

Sebastian Smythe is probably one of the most irritating, self-centred people Blaine has ever met. He is also the co-captain of the White Dolphins, alongside Santana Lopez. He is also somewhat terrifying.

“I don’t understand how they get him so high,” Tina whispers, shuffling closer to Blaine on the bleachers. He wraps an arm around her and tugs his cardigan shut with his free hand; it’s bitingly cold for a summer evening, and Sam’s dragged them out the day after their moving day to see his first play of the season. “Like, he’s like, six foot three. He’s pure muscle. And they’re all tiny over-tanned white girls. I don’t understand.” 

Blaine shakes his head in disbelief and agreement.

Sebastian does another adroit pose and a twist in the air and then shoots back down to where three girls are waiting to catch him. He struts forward in time with the music as if he weren’t just ten feet in the air mere seconds ago, and slips back into a formation with the other members of the team.

“I think it’s admirable, in a way,” Blaine says, tilting his head. As much as he hates to compliment the Dolphins -- and he _does_ hate to compliment the Dolphins -- it’s rare to see male cheerleaders doing more than backflips and providing landing strips for the girls. “Not that I’d ever say that to his face.” He’d rather die than give him the satisfaction.

Sebastian steps to the side and takes his place behind Santana, gripping her by the waist and throwing her upwards; he catches her by the foot and she poses, lifting her leg up with her hand and beaming.

“I don’t want to say _anything_ to his face. I don’t want to _talk_ to him in general,” Tina mutters, settling her head on Blaine’s shoulder.

“He _is_ pretty intolerable.” 

“Understatement of the year,” Tina hisses back. The music -- some godawful Meghan Trainor remix -- finishes up, complete with a few punctuary laser sound effects. The Dolphins do a final pose, chests heaving and all grinning.

Blaine sits up a little more as the Dolphins’ formation disintegrates, and they all shuffle back to the side-lines as the half-time ends. Sam and his team dart out, and Blaine brings one hand to cup his mouth as he cheers.

: : :

“You were great!” He tells Sam after the game is over -- NYU winning 35-24 -- and he brings a hand out to pat him on the arm. Sam grins in response.

“Thanks, dude,” Sam ducks his head bashfully, and Blaine’s insides squeeze with pride. He’s long moved on from his freshman straight-boy crush on Sam -- which was somehow less tragic than _Tina’s_ crush on Sam, which made little sense -- but he is still one of his best friends, and Blaine still feels a surge of delight in seeing him succeed in anything.

“He _was_ great, wasn’t he?” Sebastian says from behind them, and Blaine has to physically will himself not to roll his eyes. He turns his head just as Sebastian walks past them to stand next to Sam, bringing a hand up to clap onto his shoulder. “It always makes my job as a cheerleader easier when the people you’re cheering for are actually good,” he continues gratuitously, as if Blaine and Tina have no idea of the cheerleading experience and he’s graciously enlightening them.

“Why are you being nice right now?” Blaine asks slowly. Sebastian’s words sounded almost foreign to his ears; he was acting so out of character that Blaine considered ringing Santana or someone to ask if Sebastian had whatever the opposite of an evil twin was.

“I’m friends with Sam,” Sebastian says, shrugging. He keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“ _You’re_ friends with Sam,” Blaine repeats, deadpan.

“Yep. We’re in Psychology class together,” Sebastian replies, looking really smug about it.

“Psych class? Sam, you’re an art major,” Tina says gently.

“Yeah. Art therapy is part of my course,” Sam grins. “Sebastian’s pretty cool, you guys. He lets me copy his notes.”

Sebastian grins delightedly. “I _do_ do that.”

“That’s not fair,” Tina says, swatting Sebastian’s hand off of Sam’s shoulder and tugging Sam closer. “Sam’s _our_ loveable idiot. _You_ don’t get to be friends with him.”

Sam beams at being called loveable, and then his smile falls. “Hey.”

“Harsh, T,” Blaine mutters, even if he secretly agrees. “Sebastian, I really don’t get your angle here. You take Psych classes? What is it you even _do_ here?”

“Law,” Sebastian says, sounding bored. “With a minor in dance.”

“Law,” Blaine repeats. “ _You’re_ going to represent people in court --” he shakes his head in disbelief. “God, save us all.”

“What?” Sebastian grins then, as if pleased that by only mentioning his major he’s irritated Blaine. “I’m good at it.”

“I doubt that,” Blaine snaps. “I don’t think you’ve ever taken anything seriously in your life.”

“Okay!” Tina says, clapping her hands together. “And we’re going. Goodbye, Sebastian.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and he gives Sebastian a thumbs up. “See you on Wednesday, dude.”

Sebastian tilts his head in acknowledgement, but keeps his eyes only on Blaine. “Bye, Blaine.”

: : :

“Hey there, killer,” Sebastian says, leering down at him from beside the table at the campus Starbucks that Blaine and Tina are currently sitting at. He doesn’t greet Tina.

“What do you want, Sebastian?” Blaine says, closing his laptop slowly. 

“Oh, where should I start?” Sebastian’s eyes flash, and he grins like a shark. At their irritated silence, he continues anyway, “I wanted to be the one to inform you of some schedule changes. Mostly just to see the looks on your faces.” 

“What schedule changes? To the cheer roster?” Blaine asks, already fishing in his pocket for his phone. 

He begins checking the calendar app and its markings as Sebastian continues, “No, to the canteen times.” He scoffs for a moment, obviously finding himself very funny. “Yes, to the cheer roster. We have to share a time-slot on Tuesdays and Thursdays now.”

Blaine blinks. He wants to bring a hand to his forehead to see if this is some kind of awful, deluded, fevered hallucination. He wants to open his eyes again and find he was dreaming the whole time, like the ending of a bad middle-school creative writing piece. He wants to drop Sebastian off at a Kindergarten to learn about the dangers of telling lies. 

He doesn’t do any of those things, because Tina speaks before his body can catch up to the news: “ _What_?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays, 2pm slot, the Dolphins and the Violets have to share a coach and a field.” Sebastian sighs, and he genuinely looks a little sympathetic, if only for himself, “Trust me, we’re as unhappy about it as you are. One of the coaching staff was poached by Columbia, so they’re cutting down the sessions.”

“Who?” Tina asks, and Blaine doesn’t know how she can be making conversation right now. He thumbs through his calendar, fervently changing dates and times set months in advance. This is terrible news.

“Coach Roz.” Sebastian frowns. 

“Well, what does this mean in the long term?” Blaine says, finally finding his voice. “Will this mean less practice time? We’re _national champions_ , this can’t happen to us. _Oh my god,_ ” a deeply sobering thought fills him and settles in his stomach, like a stone in water. “Are they going to _merge_ the two teams?”

Tina reaches across the table to hold his hand comfortingly, whereas Sebastian visually holds back a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. If they did that they’d have to cut half of our members, and 70% of those girls are on scholarships; I’m pretty sure parents would go berserk. But you’d be fine anyway, Anderson, so I don’t see why you care.” He wrinkles his nose in sympathy at Tina, “ _You’d_ definitely be going, though.”

“I _care_ because I care about the Violets and our members, Sebastian.” Blaine shakes his head exasperatedly: what is it that Sebastian doesn’t seem to understand? The merging of the two teams would mean awful things for the Violets; it could cost them half their best members, their dignity, their reputation; worse, it could cost them another national title. No. Not in his _senior year_. Not in his final year as captain. “You do realise if they merged the teams, they’d keep us the Violets, since we were here first? You’re a _co-captain_ of the Dolphins. Why aren’t you concerned? Where is your _loyalty_?”

“Loyalty?” Sebastian repeats incredulously, adjusting the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. “Who ever said anything about loyalty? I just like to be on the winning team.”

“You would lose your power, you know,” Blaine raises one eyebrow. “They’d keep me as captain. You’d have to obey my every order.” He lets himself enjoy that for a moment -- he doesn’t usually allow any power to go to his head from his position, but the fantasy of putting Sebastian in his place is far from unappealing.

Sebastian doesn’t look fazed. He cocks his head a little. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not beyond sleeping with the person in power to get what I want.” Blaine feels his cheeks burn and he frowns disapprovingly. “Especially when the person in power is as easy on the eyes as --”

“Is this a game to you, Sebastian?” Blaine finds himself snapping, standing up and grabbing his laptop bag from the back of the chair. He’s as irritated with himself for letting Sebastian get under his skin so quickly, but he also can’t stand to sit there and be talked down to any longer. He begins packing his things away as he furiously continues, “Because it’s not a game for me. This is my _life,_ my passion, and I’m not just going to let _you_ \--” he jabs at the air in front of Sebastian’s chest with an angry finger, “-- fuck it all up!”

He slings the strap of his laptop bag over his shoulder, and he grabs his empty coffee cup to throw into the trash on his way out. “Tina, don’t wait up. Sebastian,” Blaine pauses and counts to ten under his breath. “Sebastian. You’re talented, I’ll admit that. But you lack so much class that it’s not even funny.”

Blaine makes it to the glass double doors of the Starbucks before Sebastian calls after him, “Will you be wearing a skirt on Tuesday, or the pants?”

Blaine whips around to glare at him. Tina is still sitting at the table, eyeing them both warily, but Sebastian is only looking at Blaine, a smug smile still on his face.

“The pants.” Blaine grits out, his voice only just loud enough to carry across the shop.

“Shame.” Sebastian shrugs.

Blaine turns again, channeling his fury into throwing his coffee cup into the trash as he leaves. The lid pops off and cold coffee remnants splash onto the black plastic of the bin liner. Blaine shoves his way through the open doors and doesn’t turn around until he’s off-campus.

: : :

It’s two days later before he sees Sebastian again, and even then, it’s not in circumstances he would have expected.

As captain, he has to attend every training session for the Violets (a largely self imposed rule), but he enjoys it; there’s something satisfying about approving every move in the choreography, showing the younger cheerleaders how to do a more specific maneuver they haven’t mastered just yet, or even just witnessing the camaraderie and friendship between all of his cheerleaders. He finds it really fulfilling, and it makes him swell with pride knowing he’s respected and listened to, and that he can be a positive role-model for the younger students.

That being said, sitting on a mat watching nineteen year old girls fail at an incredibly basic trick far below their skill level gets very old, very quickly, and so he relieves himself of it through heading inside to refill his water bottle at one of the fountains in the auditorium foyer.

He gets about ten feet away from the water fountain before he sees Santana and Sebastian walking down the hallway, dressed in their normal clothes, and both looking -- not guilty, exactly, but more _caught-red-handed_.

“Sebastian,” he says sharply. “Santana. What are you doing here? It’s a Dolphin off-day.”

Sebastian opens and closes his mouth, and then he turns to look at Santana. They both look like they’re on the verge of giggles; as if they’re in a situation they know is bad, but neither is taking seriously at all. 

“I, uh... I forgot my cheer uniform in my gym locker. So I’ve come to get it. Sebastian is accompanying me,” Santana says finally, smiling closed-mouth at Blaine.

Blaine narrows his eyes. “Really? But everyone gets three copies of their cheer uniform.”

“My other two are at the dry-cleaners.”

“Really,” Blaine asks again, sourly. “Or were you spying on my team?”

“We’re not spying on you, Blaine,” Sebastian supplies for Santana, looking as if he’s suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. “Out of _all the things to do_ \-- you know this is a public campus, right? As in, people can come and go as they please?”

Blaine snaps, “Do you really think I’m that stupid? I know our teams have our differences but -- spying? Really? Just because your choreography is _drastically_ worse --”

Sebastian takes a sharp intake of breath then, and narrows his eyes. Weirdly, Blaine doesn’t feel as good about hitting a nerve as he thought he would; he just feels oddly guilty. Maybe because one of the few personal things he knows about Sebastian is that he’s doing a minor in dance. And it’s a lie, anyway -- the Violets are usually technically superior, but he’s always admired the better flow that the Dolphins’ routines evoked; it never feels like they’re just transitioning from move to move, but that the entire performance is a whole -- like it’s a dance with technical stunts integrated into it, not the other way around.

Sebastian swallows and sets his jaw. “Whatever, Anderson. We’re going now, anyway, so you can stop crying.”

“Why are they here?” Tina says sharply, from behind where Blaine is standing. He feels half-relief and half-irritation that she’s suddenly shown up; he could completely handle this altercation himself -- they were literally about to leave -- and Tina can be harsh and impulsive with her words -- even more so than himself. 

“Why are _you_ here?” Sebastian asks as she walks up to stand beside Blaine.

“Yeah. I thought you were out with Asian Bird Flu,” Santana says, frowning and gesturing at Tina.

“That’s actually very racist, Santana,” Tina says, crossing her arms.

“What? I’m asking out of concern.”

“They were spying on us,” Blaine says resignedly, turning to meet Tina’s eyes. She is agape for a moment, then shuts her mouth fiercely, whipping her head to look at Sebastian and Santana.

“ _We weren’t spying_ ,” Sebastian repeats, rolling his eyes. “Why would we want to copy your mediocre moves, anyway? Wow, a ‘high V’. I’ve never seen one of _those_ before.”

“You know, Sebastian, we should get Coach Donnelly involved --” Tina begins, but Sebastian cuts her off with a raised hand.

“Sorry, Tina, but you know what? I don’t have time for this,” Sebastian hisses, grabbing Santana by her elbow and tugging her past them. “We’ll see you at training tomorrow. Or not. I really don’t care.”

Blaine turns in place to watch them leave, holding Sebastian’s name in his mouth, feeling the urge to call out to them. He suppresses it, instead tilting his head in Tina’s direction and speaking to her without looking at her, “Can you believe them?”

“Were they really spying on us?” 

Blaine shrugs. “They were loitering by the auditorium doors. I caught them when I was going to fill my water bottle back up.” He frowns; they _had_ to have been spying. If they weren’t, their weird guilty looks wouldn’t have made any sense. And he can’t think of any other reason they’d come to the field on a Dolphin off-day. “If they weren’t spying, they did a great job of looking like two people who’d just been caught spying.”

“They’re weird,” Tina says, as if it’s some grand revelation. Blaine shrugs and nods again passively, walking over to the fountain to finally fill his water bottle up. Tina trails after him, straightening out the pleats on her skirt as she walks.

: : :

Even though he’d known it was the next day, Tuesday still comes faster than Blaine had been hoping. Up until the moment he and Tina push through the auditorium doors onto the field, part of him had been believing that he’d dreamed the interaction with Sebastian, and that their scheduling would be normal, and Coach Roz would be taking their team. And only their team.

Because this is his life, this obviously isn’t the case. The first thing he sees upon walking out into the field is Sebastian, Santana, and the rest of the Dolphins and Violets, stretching and warming up before the practice.

Brittany’s there, in her Violets uniform, and she’s chatting animatedly to Santana, who’s bent over stretching her hamstrings and touching her toes. Brittany beams when she sees Tina and Blaine approaching, lifting one hand to wiggle her fingers in a wave.

“Brittany,” Tina says, shaking her head. “Why are you talking to them?”

“Santana’s really nice,” Brittany shrugs, and Santana stands back up fully. “I like Santana.”

“You’re not _supposed_ to,” Tina rolls her eyes, and grabs Brittany by the elbow to pull her over to where the rest of their team has congregated. Brittany turns as best she can to blow a kiss at Santana, who mimes catching it and pulling it to her chest. Sebastian pushes her shoulder and grimaces.

The new coach -- Blaine doesn’t catch her name, and he makes a mental reminder to check on the faculty website when he gets home -- has them run laps for a warm-up, and then divides them out into smaller groups, with the others watching as they wait their turn.

As Blaine is captain, he’s leading first with a move that’s almost iconic for them. He begins the routine as he’s supposed to; they’ve done it a million times before, and it’s a relatively simple move for their skill set. It begins with just a front handspring, pretty basic -- Blaine could do it in his sleep -- and then he twists to be caught by the girls, where they lift him in a spin by his foot into a cupie.

It _should_ be incredibly easy.

He makes it to the standing position and twists to the front before he can look out onto the rest of the team and the Dolphins spectating; somehow, immediately, his eyes find Sebastian’s face.

Sebastian, who is watching him intently -- not any of the ten others doing runs in the middle, just _him_ \-- with his head tilted to the side and his eyes narrowed in -- what? Evaluation? Judgement? Amusement? Santana leans over to whisper something in his ear and he grins, turning to look at her.

Blaine feels his face heat up and his stomach sink before he realises he’s falling.

He hits the mat with a sharp thud, and he can feel his face contort in pain as his hip rattles inside his body and the hot ache runs through his tailbone and his thighs.

He sits up a little, pushing himself up with his hands and looking around in embarrassment. One of the girls spotting him has fallen to the ground, too, and the majority of the other cheerleaders are watching, open-mouthed in shock and amusement.

“I -- Jesus, sorry, Sophie,” he says as he stands, shaking out his leg. The pressure from standing is sending shooting pain all the way up to his spine, but he ignores it, shifting his weight from foot to foot and holding a hand out to help the girl up.

He scrubs a hand over his face whilst the coach yells for everyone to take five. He’s mortified; it’s not just that he missed the move in front of his team -- the girls he rags on every week to be _better_ \-- but that he messed up in front of the Dolphins in practice. They’d only seen him perform in competition before this; they must think he’s all talk and no show.

“I’m just surprised you didn’t break your ankles,” Santana says as she walks up to him, bringing a hand up to run through her ponytail. “Your weak, tiny, _tiny_ ankles. They look like a strong wind or a baby’s cough would snap them in half.”

Blaine frowns and looks down at his ankles self-consciously. They aren’t _that_ weak-looking.

“Accidents happen,” he says quietly. 

“Who the fuck was that spotting you?” Sebastian says, apparently materialising out of thin air. Blaine frowns at him.

“What?”

“Who was that girl spotting you? With our usual coach, if anyone ever lets a flyer fall, we all have to run laps.” Sebastian squints out across the gaggle of girls standing around and talking, as if his spotter will come running forward with a confessional.

Blaine shakes his head, a little startled that Sebastian seems angry on his behalf. “It wasn’t her fault. I was distracted.”

Sebastian turns back to look at him then, meeting his eyes. He looks over his face once, twice, and then repeats, “Distracted.”

“I -- yeah. Shit happens,” Blaine shrugs, dusting his hands off on the pants of his uniform. “It’s not a big deal.”

Sebastian regards him once over again, and cocks his head like he’s going to say something, before the coach is shouting for the Dolphins to try a formation this time. He turns and walks towards the mats with Santana, and Blaine frowns after him.

: : :

“I don’t want to go to a _frat party_ , Tina,” Blaine says, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to get beaten up for looking at some football player the wrong way. And my ego is still too bruised from falling for me to be seen in public.”

“Is your ego bruised, or your tailbone?” At Blaine’s glare, Tina moves to sit on the edge of the bed, taking his hand in hers and holding it in her lap comfortingly. “But Blainey Days,” she whines, “ _I_ want to go. And Sam said he’s inviting a bunch of his male model friends, and they’re hot _and_ mostly bi-curious.”

“I refuse to be a straight boy’s experiment,” Blaine says solemnly. 

“Then don’t be,” Tina rolls her eyes, “but you _have_ to come, because I need someone to hold my drink for me, and you’re the only man I trust.”

“What about Sam?” he suggests. 

“I love Sam, but I don’t trust his awareness of his surroundings at any given point. Oh, and we do have to be there to make sure he doesn’t try and call Rachel again.”

Blaine groans at the mention of Sam’s recent ex girlfriend. “Not _Rachel_ \-- can’t you just lock his phone in a vault or something? Stay home with me.”

“No, you have to come.” At Blaine’s still unconvinced expression, Tina tilts her head and whines, “Blainey, come on. Don’t you love me? Don’t you want to be my hero saving me from roofies? Don’t you want to save us all from a phone conversation with Rachel Berry?”

Blaine shudders. “How is that last one the worst one?”

“Please, Blaine?” Tina says again. “Please?”

He shakes his head again. “I’m not going.”

: : :

Blaine ends up going.

As soon as they enter, Tina untangles her arm from where it’s linked through Blaine’s to hurry over to where Brittany is topless and writhing on a coffee table with three legs. Blaine doesn’t know whether it’s a testament to his gayness or his high school Physics grade that he’s more intrigued by the way the table is still standing than the salt poured onto Brittany’s navel. 

“Brittany, you’re _wasted,_ ” he can hear Tina hiss, “do you really think this is how Violets behave?”

“Tina!” Brittany says back, grinning, and surging up to give her a firm kiss on the mouth. There is a small uproar of cheers from the fraternity members sitting on the couches near the table. 

Tina stares at Brittany for a moment, closing her eyes and collecting herself before taking her hand and pulling her up. “Come on. Let’s get you some water.”

Blaine smiles sheepishly at the group of boys clustered along the worn couches and gives them a wide berth as he heads over towards the wall, scanning the floor for Sam or anyone else vaguely recognisable. Then,

“Blaine Anderson. We _have_ to stop meeting like this.”

Blaine turns slowly, because he really would recognise that voice anywhere, and he hates that he would. “Sebastian.”

Sebastian is beaming at him, swirling a coke that’s inevitability mixed with something else with a pink plastic straw. “I thought Tina only let you out of her hag-cave on national holidays.”

“Very funny,” Blaine says, achingly insincere. “Where did you get your drink?” He knows that he’s going to need one if this conversation is to continue.

“There’s some guys in the other room handing out beers, wine coolers, and vodka and cokes. You need a drink ticket, I think.” He shrugs dismissively, “Tana got it for me.”

“Hot girl privilege?” Blaine surmises, because this _is_ a frat house. Sebastian wrinkles his nose, as if Blaine pointing out the true fact of Santana being a hot girl disgusts him.

“Your hair is different,” Sebastian says, deflecting. He gestures vaguely towards Blaine’s head.

“Oh,” Blaine brings a hand to touch absentmindedly at his curls; he’d forgone the gel, because parties are often too humid and sweaty and his hair comes uncast anyway. “Yeah.”

“Did Tina curl it?”

Blaine frowns. “No, it just looks like this naturally. I just usually gel it,” he smooths some of the curls self-consciously with one hand. “Just because it gets pretty frizzy -- because it’s so fine.”

“Oh,” Sebastian shrugs and takes a sip from the straw. He looks Blaine up and down again slowly. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Blaine says, frowning and folding his arms over himself, suddenly feeling naked and entirely watched. 

“Nice one, did you steal that from a Disney Channel original movie?” Sebastian cocks his head and plays with the straw again.

Blaine narrows his eyes. “You’re so funny.”

Sebastian is quiet for a moment, and then he asks, “Why are you here?”

“Why does it look like I’m here?” Blaine leans against the wall and appraises Sebastian’s outfit; part of him had pegged him as the tastefully-slutty type, but to his surprise, Sebastian’s dressed like half the straight guys in here -- he seems to have mastered the rich-white-boy look.

“To get laid?” Sebastian guesses.

“I don’t do hookups, so no.” Blaine rolls his eyes, though part of him can’t help but wonder if Sebastian is deliberately winding him up, or whether he truly thinks Blaine would let his self worth slip that low. “They never end well.”

“Hm. Speak for yourself,” Sebastian says, leaning against the wall next to him. “So why are you here, if not for that?”

“My friend Sam is in the frat here,” Blaine says, gesturing vaguely to the crowds of young adults across the main room of the house. “He always invites us. We hardly ever come, but -- he just got broken up with. We’re here to confiscate his phone and stop drunk-dials.” 

“Who’s we?” Sebastian asks, his voice a little clipped, and Blaine frowns, because it seems a little obvious to him that he’d mean Tina -- they’d talked about her twice already. He doesn’t get to answer, though, because a relatively tipsy, vaguely-familiar looking guy breaks free from the congregation in the middle of the room to saunter up to them.

“Sebastian!” he says, grinning. “How are you? D’you wanna dance?”

“What? No.” Sebastian says immediately, wrinkling his nose and waving a dismissive hand at him. “You have the energy of a thrift store. Go away.”

The guy looks a little put out, but smiles tightly at them both anyway, and turns around and dances back into the throngs of people across the room.

“What was up with that?” Blaine asks, tilting his head. The guy seemed nice enough, if a little eager. Sebastian rolls his eyes.

“Don’t you know him? I’m not interested,” Sebastian replies, as if the judgement he’s drawn is obvious.

“No, I don’t know him. Is he a frat boy or something?” Blaine supposes he could understand Sebastian’s hesitation towards fraternity members; more often than not they’re straight boys looking to experiment, and Sam has told him horror stories of boys asking others out for dares. He frowns harder, embarrassed; the guy had known Sebastian’s name, after all. “Oh, is he an ex boyfriend?”

“No, he’s just on my cheer team,” Sebastian says, taking another sip from his straw. “I wouldn’t date a _male cheerleader_ , nevermind hook up with, or even dance with one. I’m not _that_ gay.”

Blaine blinks, bewildered. “But _you’re_ a male cheerleader.”

“Ugh, it’s a long story. My parents cut me off,” Sebastian shrugs. “Something about learning ‘responsibility’ and ‘taking accountability for my actions’,” he makes air quotes and scowls. “The bastards. You know I got into Harvard?”

Blaine shakes his head, but he doesn’t feel surprised at the news. Sebastian simply oozes charisma and intelligence; it’s a little scary sometimes, the times when he tilts his head and just lets his eyes glide over you mechanically, and you know he’s gaining insight into every thought you’re thinking solely from your body language. 

“Yeah, well, I did. But I’m not about to go into student debt when my parents could _easily_ pay my way through. So I looked into scholarships,” Sebastian continues, “and this university has great opportunities for male cheerleaders, and NYU looks pretty good on a resumé. So here I am, three years later. A male cheerleader, yes, but debt free.” He wiggles his hand not holding the drink in a sardonic _ta-dah_ movement.

“Didn’t you do cheerleading in high school?” Blaine asks, if not out of sheer confusion at Sebastian’s distaste for cheerleading -- everyone he’s met through the cheer program at NYU, enemy team or not, has been wholly enthusiastic about the sport -- but also simply to continue the conversation; it’s the first exchange he’s had with Sebastian where he hasn’t either insulted him in some capacity or teetered on the verge of sexual harassment in one of his comments, and without him he’d probably be delegated to the corner of the room for the rest of the party.

“What? No.” Sebastian grimaces. “Could you imagine? I just saw the scholarship and thought: how hard can it be? So I practised a little, and sent in a video of me dancing and doing some flips, and I got in.”

The creeping, terrible thought from Sebastian’s earlier comment becomes realised. Sebastian didn’t even cheer in high school. He wants to scream. He wants to rant about injustice and privilege; he wants to rave about how he’s worked his ass off for years at high school cheerleading competitions in the face of homophobia and sexism. He wants to beg Sebastian to teach him his ways, to teach him how he’s _genuinely_ one of the most talented cheerleaders Blaine has ever met in his life -- and he has attended a lot of competitions, and met a lot of cheerleaders -- and yet he only picked it up for funsies a few years ago. Mostly, he just wants to punch Sebastian in the face.

“You never did cheerleading before college,” he asks again, dryly. He _cannot_ believe what Sebastian’s just said to him. He doesn’t want to believe it.

“ _Nope_ ,” Sebastian says, grinning smugly, popping the ‘p’. “You look shocked.”

“Do you know how hard I worked to get this scholarship?” Blaine hisses, pushing off of the wall so he’s standing and facing Sebastian fully. He wants to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off of Sebastian’s face. “Do you know how much time I put in after hours in high school? My parents have paid _thousands_ over the years for tumbling classes, and you’re telling me you got in by doing _a little dance_? Are you fucking kidding me? Who do you think you are?”

Sebastian doesn’t look even slightly affected by Blaine’s tirade; only amused. “That sucks for you, I guess.”

“God, you are immature. You have _zero_ sense of reality.” 

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “You sound like my parents.”

Blaine ignores him, and continues, “You’re a senior, and a team captain. You’re a _role model_ ; act like it.”

“I’m immature?” Sebastian scoffs, but his lips are quirked in a grin. He’s clearly enjoying this, which just makes the heat at the back of Blaine’s neck crawl further. “Well, you’re fucking _uptight_. I mean, you won’t even do hookups in college. You’re fucking _twenty one_ \--”

“That’s not immaturity, that’s a _lifestyle choice_ \--” Blaine cuts himself off with an exasperated groan, clenching his fists. He takes a deep breath. “You know what, Sebastian? Stay here and have fun. Or don’t. I don’t care; just don’t talk to me. It’s a big university. I suggest you find someone else to direct your poorly misplaced anger towards.”

“You’re the only one who gets angry.” True to his word, Sebastian looks stunningly unperturbed. 

“Fine,” Blaine snaps, looking around the room. “I’m the _only one_ who gets angry.” He just wants to be done with the conversation. He glances over Sebastian one more time -- his outfit is hideous, he tells himself, and it’s a small comfort -- before he turns on his heel, scanning the room for Tina.

He finds her in the next room over, draped across a couch, chatting eagerly to some tall Asian guy from Sam’s fraternity.

“Tina,” he says sharply.

“Blaine!” She beams up at him, and he eyes the red cup in her hand carefully. “This is Mike.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, not even looking up at the guy. “How much have you had to drink? Can you get me something?”

“Have this,” she thrusts the cup at him; he peers inside to see some weird, pink liquid -- alcoholic punch, he assumes. It’s fruity and sharp when he tastes it, and he tips the rest of it back in one drink. Tina grabs his hand and waves bye to the guy -- Mike -- before pulling him through into another room where the frat brothers have set up some weird, trashy makeshift bar, pushing to the front and getting them both new drinks.

After that, Blaine gets drunk very quickly. 

He doesn’t feel that drunk, and then he sits down with Tina for a bit, and when he stands again his centre of gravity shoots around his body and he nearly stumbles, giggling. He does two shots of vodka out of red solo cups, which he didn’t even know was a thing. Rum and cokes with weird ratios keep being thrust into his hands, and he doesn’t even question it. 

Despite what he said to Sebastian about self respect, he lets himself dance with someone he doesn’t know; it’s really hot in the house, and it's less dancing and more jumping around near each other. The guy keeps grabbing him and pulling him in by the waist and he lets him, even though he doesn’t like him that much, only ducking his head to the side when he leans in for a kiss, and excusing himself to drift across the waves of drunk college students until he finds a different dance partner who won’t try and lick his neck, or another disposable cup he can drain the final dregs from.

Sebastian called him _uptight_ \-- he scoffs to himself as he wraps his arms around the neck of a different stranger. He’s not uptight because he doesn’t want to throw himself around in college; he can respect _Sebastian’s_ decisions with his body, why can’t he respect his? He dances closely with strangers until they seem too friendly, and then he finds someone else with a close eye on him across the floor -- it doesn’t take him too long. He’s desirable, he reminds himself; he’s talented, he’s successful, he’s desirable, and he’s _fun._ He’s liked. He’s popular. No matter what Sebastian thinks.

He doesn’t know if Sebastian sticks around for the rest of the night, and he tells himself that he doesn’t care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this was a movie scene please know that i would have had britney spears’ “toxic” playing in the background of the party fight scene
> 
> also blaine's slut shaming self does not represent my personal thoughts :(


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM really sorry this is coming out like a month later... its been written since before i even posted the first chapter but i kept putting off posting it and then forgetting and ugh. anyway. here it is.
> 
> once again.. major apologies for any inaccuracies in terms of NYU residency buildings, or even just nyc in general.. ive never been lol so google and assumptions is the best i can do

Blaine wakes up the next day with a really terrible hangover.

He’d classify it as ‘really terrible’ and not ‘excruciatingly awful’, because as soon as he and Tina had arrived back in their apartment, he’d begun chugging water until he was sure he had a pretty good ratio on his alcohol-to-water intake. And then he’d stripped off, crawled into bed, and promptly passed out.

He shifts on the bedcovers and stretches upwards like a cat before falling back down, burying his face into the pillow listlessly. Mentally, he starts ticking through the things he has to do today; maybe he really should have been firmer with Tina about not attending the party, because the list seems much larger and more looming than he recalls, and his head throbs with the reminder of it. He has a meeting with the Coach at 4pm, and he can genuinely only hope that he’s sober by then.

“Blainey days!” Tina calls through the apartment in a sing-song voice, and he suppresses the urge to throttle her. “Are you decent?” she asks through his bedroom door, before flinging it open without waiting for an answer anyway. 

“Tina!” He scrambles to pull the duvet further up his bare chest. “God -- knock, please.”

“Sorry,” Tina says, not looking very sorry. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to lunch; it’s nearly noon.”

“Let’s not,” Blaine says perhaps a little patronisingly, scrunching his face up. Tina huffs in indignation and turns her head sharply to brush her fringe out of her face. “Tina, my head hurts,” Blaine wheedles, tilting his head and talking as if he were speaking to a small child.

“Food helps,” Tina replies, nodding sagely. “Food gets rid of a hangover.” Blaine sighs at her and turns over. “Blaine,” she says, a little more insistently. “Have a shower and get ready. I’m craving the fries from the canteen.”

It takes less than an hour until Blaine is sliding his tray onto one of the tables and sitting down across from her.

“God, if I could marry fries, I would,” Tina says, dipping a fry in a little paper container for ketchup. “Maybe I should anyway.”

“They’re not even that good.” Blaine wrinkles his nose and pokes at his salad. “They’re undersalted.”

“How dare you speak about my future spouse like that.” Tina shakes her head in mock-disgrace. “How dare you.”

“Speaking of...” Blaine smiles, and Tina can obviously tell where he’s going from his sing-song lilt because she grumbles under her breath. “Whatever happened to that guy you were with yesterday? Uh -- Mark?”

“Mike,” Tina corrects. “And -- I don’t want to tell you.”

Blaine’s eyes snap up from his salad to meet Tina’s. Hers are glittering with delight with the way she’s withholding the information. “No, you have to tell me. I’m your best friend. GBF privileges.”

“I thought you hated that term,” Tina says, popping another fry into her mouth and smiling elusively.

“I do, until I use it to bring me the information that I want. So spill.”

Tina’s mouth worms its way into a suppressed, pleased little squiggle, before she grins. “Okay, so, nothing really happened but -- I got his number. And we made out. Or whatever.”

“Tina!” he slaps her arm lightly. “Yes!”

“Don’t worry, though.” She beams, “You’re still number one guy in my life. Then Sam.”

“Of course.” He nods solemnly. “Of course. Hey, can we stop by my locker after this? I wanna grab my uniform before we do the next load of laundry.”

Tina hums her yes, and by the time they’ve finished eating and walked around to the locker rooms, Blaine’s hangover really has started to ebb. 

And then they arrive, and his headache comes back full force.

: : :

“Did you _trash_ my _gym locker_?!” Blaine snaps, bursting into one of the student booths in the library where Santana and Sebastian are currently making notes together.

Santana looks up from where she was reading Sebastian’s notes over his shoulder, her ponytail swinging. “Uh, actually, hobbit, we’ve reserved this study time --“ she begins.

“You trashed my gym locker,” Blaine repeats, scoffing in disbelief.

“What?” Sebastian replies primly, putting down his pencil to look at Blaine fully. “Well, that’s not true.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Blaine asks, walking closer to the table they’re sitting at. Sebastian smiles cooly up at him. “I mean, seriously, are you twelve? Who _does_ that?”

“I’m so sorry something happened to your locker, Blaine,” Sebastian says, folding his hands in front of him. “But unless you have certain proof it was us -- I can’t help you.”

Blaine narrows his eyes and shakes his head in incredulity. “I should -- I should get the coaches involved. Surely this is some kind of fucking -- _violation_. Isn’t it illegal to damage school property?”

“You’re so cute when you’re mad,” Sebastian says, moving to rest his head on his hand.

Blaine is stunned into silence for a second, before a second wave of anger hits him along with a realisation. “ _That’s_ what you were doing when I caught you ‘spying’! You weren’t -- _spying_ , you were going to trash my fucking locker!” He lets out a sharp, angry huff. “You’re so fucking juvenile, Sebastian, it’s not even funny.”

“Ah, no, because we had practice the next day and your locker was fine, remember?” Sebastian shrugs like he’s unbothered, picking his pencil back up. “Are you done?”

Blaine ignores him, “Because I caught you, that’s why it was fine. You went back and did it a different day.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Who are you? A villian in a teen movie? What the hell?”

“As a law student, can I just say how impressed I am with your deductive reasoning?” Sebastian presses a hand to his chest, as if to prove that he’s genuine. “But again, as a law student, that _probably_ wouldn’t hold up in court. Unless you have evidence that either of us were even involved, can you stop wasting my time?” At Blaine’s furious silence, he continues, “Because I have a really fucking hard quiz tomorrow, and I’m trying to study. _Please_ fuck off.”

“Not until you admit you trashed my fucking locker. There was -- ugh, it was disgusting, you put like, markers and glitter and toilet paper all over it, I mean, come on.”

“Blaine,” Sebastian says slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child. “We had no involvement. Can you understand that?”

“I wish I could believe you. I mean, why would anyone just do shit like this?” Blaine asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Why do you just look like a sadder, gayer Gene Kelly?” Santana replies from where she’s sitting next to Sebastian. Blaine had almost forgotten she was there.

“You know what? That’s a compliment,” Blaine bites back. Santana pulls a facial expression that’s like -- _sure._

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Blaine,” Sebastian says, shrugging.

“An apology would be good, for a start.”

“I have nothing to apologise for, because I didn’t do anything.”

Blaine holds his hands up in a furious surrender, like _he_ has anything to surrender for. “Fine. _Fine._ You didn’t do anything,” he spits the words out, all of them dripping with sarcasm. “You -- God. Fine. You win, Sebastian.”

He could swear Sebastian’s face flickers with disappointment, and he lets the deep smugness that comes along with it settle in his stomach and fill him better than any meal. Like elementary school bullies, he reminds himself; just don’t give them the attention they crave and they’ll wind up leaving you alone.

: : :

He makes it to Coach Archer’s office just before 4pm despite the setback, and he thinks he honest-to-god preens when she praises him on his time-keeping. He chooses not to mention the fact that he did, genuinely, wake up at noon.

“Blaine,” she begins, settling back in the chair behind her desk and putting a clipboard down on the desk with a clatter. “Technically, I’m supposed to be checking up on your choreographing plans, the skill-sets your cheerleaders are up to, the scheduling but -- who am I kidding? Do I really need to check any of that with you?”

He tries not to smile too smugly, even though he _does_ feel smug about it -- he dedicates a lot of his free time to the Violets, and though he loves and enjoys it, and the inherent pride for himself that comes with being helpful and seeing a difference from his own actions is _more_ than enough, it still feels great to be praised for it by an authority figure.

“If need be, you can just email me over some of your plans, if you did want me to check them anyway.” Coach Archer leans forward in her chair, and continues, “But what I’d really like to ask of you is the USB footage of our last Comp. They’re revamping the school website, and they’d like to include a video of us performing.”

Blaine grins at the idea, but then frowns in confusion. “I don’t understand why you need me for this?”

“You have the USB,” Coach Archer says, as though it should be obvious to him. He frowns harder.

“No, I don’t.”

She squints at him, before swivelling in her chair and turning to the desk-computer, clicking the mouse. Blaine twists his hands nervously on his lap. He didn't have the USB. He'd remember, because he's so organised, especially when it comes to --

“Oh, no, you don’t.” She shrugs, turning back to him. “Sebastian does. Could you -- I don’t have his number, can you call him? I just need the USB.”

“ _I_ don’t have his number,” Blaine says, trying not to sound too shocked at the idea she thought he would. “We don’t speak.”

“Well, he has a rehearsal in an hour, so he’ll be nearby.” Coach Archer clicks through something else on her computer. “Can’t you go find him? He’s usually sitting around with Santana.”

Blaine sits, face tight, for a moment, before he concedes and rises.

She’s right, and it doesn’t take a relatively large amount of time for him to find Santana and Sebastian; they’re sitting on one of the picnic tables in the courtyard, Santana speaking very intensely to a slightly bored and amused looking Sebastian.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he can hear Santana telling him in a serious, hushed voice as he gets closer. “Your twink ass gets a sugar daddy, I get a sugar mommy --“

“-- please don’t say the words _sugar mommy_ \--“ Sebastian interrupts.

“-- okay, fine, I start dating a rich, lonely cougar --“ Santana corrects and continues, splaying her hands on the table and tapping her fingertips as she talks, like she’s conducting a business meeting. Maybe she’d be a good manager or PR agent.

Blaine clears his throat.

Santana looks up at him, visibly irritated that he’s interrupted her scheming; Sebastian’s eyes glitter with delight at Blaine’s intrusion though, for reasons Blaine can only assume being that he was either terrified of Santana’s plan, or that he’s excited to try and get on Blaine’s nerves.

“Coach Archer wants to talk to you,” he says to Sebastian, who immediately starts leaning under the table to get his backpack.

“What? Nuh-uh, _no me gusta_. This is more important.” Santana says indignantly, waving her hand and looking at Blaine like it’s his fault. Blaine suppresses the urge to roll his eyes -- from what he’d heard of their conversation, it really _wasn’t_ that important.

“Tana, it’s fine,” Sebastian stands and steps over the bench attached to the table. “We’ll catch up later. You know cheer stuff is annoying.” He casts a disdainful look over in Blaine’s direction, and Santana follows his gaze before nodding in agreement, like Blaine isn’t standing right there.

“Is she in her office?” Sebastian asks.

“Yeah,” Blaine puts his hands in his pockets, and moves to follow Sebastian.

“Uh, as fun as I’m sure that would be for me, you don’t have to come with me,” Sebastian holds up a hand, as if Blaine needs a physical reminder to stop. “I know where her office is.”

“I forgot my bag,” Blaine says, trying to feel smug over the embarrassment of Sebastian clearly telling him to fuck off.

“You mean your man-purse?” Santana asks, not looking up from where she’s started texting. Blaine ignores her, and gestures in front of him for Sebastian to walk ahead.

Coach Archer’s office is at the apex of the PE corridor, which is only five minutes away from the courtyard. They speak very little as they walk, Sebastian opting to -- as Blaine can only assume -- continue his conversation with Santana via text.

When they reach her office, Blaine sits in one of the chairs opposite her desk, where she’s marking things down on a clipboard, reaching underneath for his bag. She smiles as they enter, and Sebastian’s eyes flit between them awkwardly for a moment, before he joins Blaine in the seat next to them.

“Is this an intervention? It feels like an intervention,” Sebastian says, bringing his backpack round to sit on the floor next to his chair.

Coach Archer sighs and fiddles with the pen attached to the clipboard. “Be serious, boys.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine can see Sebastian looking at him. He can feel the way his eyes are searching and scanning across his face, willing him to meet his eyes, just for a moment, as if they share an inside joke -- they don’t, and Blaine feels irritated that he’s been grouped with Sebastian’s stupid joke. 

Frowning, he decidedly turns his head a degree the other way, as if to make a point. “Yes, sorry, Coach Archer.”

“Anyway, Sebastian.” She puts the clipboard down again. “You have the USB footage of the last competition, do you remember?”

Sebastian raises his eyebrows, as if that’s the last thing he’d expected her to say. “Uh, yeah. It’s in my dorm room.”

“Brilliant; I need it. I’m sure Blaine could explain to you why -- can you go get it for me?”

Sebastian nods, before looking between the two of them. “Is… is that all?”

“No!” Blaine says suddenly. “I’ll come with you.” 

At both Coach Archer and Sebastian’s incredulous looks, he continues, “I just -- what if you can’t find it? Or it’s not where you think? You might need another pair of eyes.” 

Sebastian’s face grows even more baffled, so Blaine leans over the desk to Coach Archer, whispering conspiratorially, “And, the majority of that footage is of the Violets. I don’t trust him not to sabotage it.” He scowls, “Let’s just say: similar things have happened before. This one time --”

“I’m sure that’s a very sad, gay story,” Sebastian says, nodding in sympathy and not even pretending to have not been eavesdropping. “But I was there, so --” he slaps his knees and stands, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack, “-- I’ll go get the USB whilst you tell it. Unsupervised. Because I’m not five.”

“No, I’m coming with you,” Blaine says, moving to gather his things. Sebastian groans like a frustrated teenager. 

“Maybe it is a good idea, Sebastian,” Coach Archer offers, and Sebastian whips his head to look at her in betrayal. Blaine thanks God for her favouritism. “I mean, unless you have a certain idea of where it’ll be, it can’t be any harm to have Blaine help you look.” She shrugs sheepishly.

Sebastian stares at her coldly in indignation for a moment, and then turns to look at Blaine, accusatory. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then shuts his eyes and smiles. “Fine. Anything to get Anderson into my bedroom, I suppose.”

Coach Archer clasps her hands, ignoring the innuendo, clearly pleased with her peace-making skills. “Great!”

Sebastian sighs again, heavy, and turns to Blaine. “Well, come on, then. I live on campus; it’s not far.”

It really isn’t far, either -- it takes them even less time to reach than it did Coach Archer’s office from the courtyard, and, though they speak even less, Sebastian isn’t texting this time, just storming ahead on long legs. Blaine has to take two extra steps for each of Sebastian’s, and he wonders if he’d laugh off any complaints he made about discrimination.

Sebastian’s dorm building is tall and quintessentially New York, brown brick and cream concrete trim; Blaine’s never visited before, though he’s passed it, due to it being a building especially for NYU Law students. Sebastian buzzes them in from the foyer, and they ride the elevator in silence until they reach his floor and Sebastian leads them to his dorm-room.

“Now that you know where I live --“ Sebastian says, pointing at Blaine with the hand holding his keys, as if to show authority, “-- I don’t want you showing up here, randomly, to bug me. I won’t have it. Erase my address from your mind.”

“It’s a college building; I couldn’t get in if I tried. Unless someone buzzed me in.” Sebastian’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, so he hastens to clarify, “But no one will, because I don’t know anyone in this building. So.” 

Blaine drags his eyes from Sebastian’s face to where the keys are clanging melodically together against his wrist; three keys, he notices -- one, he presumes is for his dorm-room, and perhaps one is for his locker. Attached is an identity keychain: one of the ones with your name and phone number engraved onto metal, in case you lose your keys. And then, hitting against it, one of those photo keychains.

It’s double sided, clacking and flipping to show both sides. On the front, a grainy photo of Sebastian grinning and Santana pretending to kiss his cheek -- and if Blaine didn’t hate both of them, he might think the idea that Sebastian had even went to the trouble was somewhat sweet -- and on the other side, a more-panned out photo of what seems to be a family of four -- presumably Sebastian’s.

Blaine’s heart tightens and pulls in his chest, and he hates it. His throat feels tight and he has to repress the urge to cough or laugh to try and dislodge the tension in it. It’s weird; he supposes he dehumanises Sebastian in his mind a little, and it’s strange to perceive him as someone with a family, someone with deep interpersonal relationships and people he cares about. 

“Hello?” Sebastian says irritably, the keys rattling together as he waves a hand in front of Blaine’s face patronisingly. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes,” Blaine says, even though he wasn’t. 

“I said, move. You’re in the way of the door.”

“Oh,” Blaine steps to the side awkwardly as Sebastian flicks through the keys and unlocks the door.

As he strides inside, Sebastian says, “Sorry about the mess,” and almost reflexively, Blaine replies, “Don’t worry about it.”

It’s not actually that messy, to be fair to him -- the worst is the desk: a standard, pine thing, with shelves built in and above it, and small neon post-it notes hung along them at eye-line. Strewn across it are sheets and handouts, pads of paper with notes and games of naughts-and-crosses scribbled across them, thick, shiny red and green textbooks lined up next to each other or stacked upon a shelf. Tucked just underneath the edge of the desk is a small, wicker wastepaper basket, crumpled essays and crinkled Redbulls poking over the edge. Blaine resists the urge to remind him to take his trash out.

Other than that, though, it’s relatively standard, basic and clean -- glossy cream walls and light, stained wood ogee skirting. It’s pretty much the same as Blaine’s dorm last year, except Sebastian’s been given a single room, so the bed is larger, centred and changed into plaid sheets.

It’s near the start of the semester, so Blaine can see why it may not be as personalised yet, but there’s elements: posters thumbtacked up above Sebastian’s bed -- weird French dramas that Blaine hasn’t heard of -- and postcards from European cities, glistening with appeal and grandeur. Blaine briefly wonders if there's writing on the back, letters from friends or family, or if Sebastian picks them up for himself when he visits, as mementos, reminders, and keepsakes. 

Tucked on windowsills and below his nightstand, little trophies, plasticky, gold-foil lacrosse ones -- Sebastian playing lacrosse makes far too much sense in Blaine’s mind, what, with his long legs and lean arms -- and the awards handed out at the end of Cheer competitions -- not the real trophies, they’re displayed in the University’s PE department -- but the blue and gold ribbons they give out for the MVPs or for Sportsmanship. 

There’s something weird about being in Sebastian’s dorm room. On most occasions, Blaine loves visiting people’s bedrooms for the first time -- his mother would joke about his nosiness -- but there’s something special, to him, about gaining this insight into that person, into their little inner personhood, like a microcosm of just _them._ Bedrooms are a place where people keep all of themselves; their thoughts, their little items, each with a small story attached that they can recline and recall to you as you thumb through their things, their eyes trailing along after you and watching, and you knowing that they’re watching, and them knowing this from the considering glances you share as you walk around. 

Blaine wonders if Sebastian would have done this if they’d met under different circumstances; follow his gaze around the room, and when Blaine came to something particularly significant, take it from him and, looking up through his eyelashes as if shy, explain gently to him the reason he has it and when he got it.

The real Sebastian breezes past him without a second glance to the room and sighs, heavy and long-suffering, in front of a matching pine set of drawers, before glancing at Blaine over his shoulder. “Please just stand still and don’t try to help. I’ll find it easily on my own, and I really don’t want you touching any of my stuff.” Blaine flexes his hands next to his sides and nods passively. Sebastian nods back and then crouches to begin looking through the drawers; Blaine continues taking in the dorm.

Around the room, and what Blaine really would most like to take an interest in, even though they bring the same tug to his chest as the keychain did, are different photo frames, some on shelves, windowsills, or hung to the wall -- Sebastian and his friends, a group shot of the Dolphins from the end of a Comp, Sebastian and Santana and a few more of their friends that Blaine doesn’t recognise, and a few without Sebastian in them at all; a close-up of a beaming, upper-class and middle-aged white couple at dinner, taken on a nice camera. Near it, that same couple, younger yet sterner looking, obviously taken at one of those professional shoots people arrange for their families. Weirdly, next to that on the windowsill, a framed photo of a cat.

“Why do you have a framed stock photo of a cat?” Blaine frowns, picking up the picture; he can’t identify the breed -- his family always had dogs growing up -- but it's long haired and fat and grumpy looking, like a Persian or a Himalayan or some other breed like it. It has to be a stock photo, too, because it's taken on a professional background, a dark blue one like a school portrait, and Blaine can't think of anyone who would have a photoshoot arranged for their cat.

Sebastian is suddenly next to him. “That’s not a stock photo,” he snaps, like Blaine is incredibly stupid. He takes the photo out of his hand and puts it back on the windowsill. “That’s my mom’s cat. Herbert.”

“You have a cat called Herbert?” Blaine asks, trying to stifle both his shock and amusement. 

“Yes. Are you going to continue to snoop through my things?” Sebastian says, turning back to look through the bottom drawer again. Blaine grins and holds his palms up in surrender, even though Sebastian can’t see him. 

“...So _why_ do you have a printed photo of your mom’s cat?” he says after a moment.

Sebastian whips around again to look at him. “Can you leave?”

“What?” Blaine raises his eyebrows. “No way. You won’t get the USB otherwise. You won’t even consider it. You’ll probably take a nap in defiance.”

“You’re right. So shut up about my cat.”

Blaine hums and is silent for a minute, and then, “So it’s _your_ cat now?”

“He’s more of a family cat,” Sebastian snaps, not looking away from where he’s rifling through the drawer. “I’ll kick you out, Anderson.”

“I don’t have a framed photo of our family dog, a framed photo on a professional --” Blaine cuts himself off with a snicker when Sebastian turns to look at him again and raises a sharp finger in warning, but Blaine can see that there’s a sly smile tugging at his lips anyway, like he’s nearly laughing but suppressing it.

“I miss him, alright?” Sebastian mutters, his tone slightly fond with what Blaine can only assume being the mention of the cat. Blaine hums an ‘alright’ in return, and they stand in silence for a moment, Blaine still inspecting the knick-knacks that Sebastian keeps around the room.

“So why don’t you have a roommate?” Blaine asks conversationally, trying to fiddle conspicuously with some plasticky gadget on Sebastian’s bookshelf, whilst keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t get caught. 

The question is simple enough, even if he does secretly want to pry -- he hadn’t been allowed to choose his own roommates in previous years, nevermind opt for a single dorm over a double. The school had simply granted his one request on the form -- to not be roomed with someone violently homophobic -- and called it good enough. 

He hadn’t minded his roommate too much, in the end (Bisexual Connor; called that because there were two other Connors on their floor to differentiate from, and because he was the only bisexual one) but he definitely preferred the freedom and general relaxation that came from sharing an apartment with Tina. She’s a good housemate, even if she can be a little creepy, and she never leaves dirty dishes in the sink.

“I used to, until this year,” Sebastian answers, shifting on his knees. Blaine’s hand stills cautiously on the toy, but Sebastian doesn’t turn around. “He was -- he was really fucking weird, actually. But he joined a fraternity last minute this year, and I guess the school couldn’t be bothered to match me with a new roommate, so they just shoved me in a single.”

Sebastian rises from where he was looking through the drawer and dusts off his jeans. Blaine drops the toy behind him onto Sebastian’s mattress before Sebastian can turn around. He continues, “I mean, if you think _I’m_ strange for the cat photo thing? He used to -- oh.”

“What?” Blaine asks, his stomach seizing with worry that Sebastian’s caught him touching his stuff.

“No, I just remembered where I put it.” Sebastian brushes past Blaine -- another benefit to having his own apartment with Tina, he’d forgotten how tiny the dorm rooms were -- and steps up onto his desk chair by his knee, kneeling on it and reaching for the shelves above the desk. 

As he reaches above his head, his t-shirt rides up and exposes the hard, pale lines of his stomach and the top of his hips, scattered with freckles and moles. Blaine takes a too-sharp intake of breath and looks anywhere else. If Sebastian saw Blaine look, he doesn’t say anything, but he does roll his shoulders slowly and stretch his arms above his head once more with a pop after he grabs something from the top shelf.

“Okay, got it.” Sebastian stretches back down, clutching a blue USB in the palm of his hand. “Can I just give it to you, to give to her? You know, to avoid tampering?” He leans towards Blaine as he speaks, and his eyes glimmer with mirth. Blaine rolls his and plucks the USB from his palm, squeezing it in his hand before pocketing it.

“Yes, fine.” Blaine shoulders his bag again. “Because that’s _such_ a tough job.”

Sebastian shrugs easily, smiling. “Thanks, Blaine.”

Blaine frowns because -- Sebastian is confusing. As he leaves, he can see him lift his hand and wiggle his fingers in some sardonic wave.

: : :

The NYU website updates two days later, and, as promised, the NYU Cheerleading page displays the video of the performance that bought the Violets their fourth consecutive Nationals win.

Scrolling down, there’s a photo of Sebastian and Santana, grinning for the camera after the White Dolphins won a different, smaller competition. It makes sense that they’d be included, but Blaine scowls anyway.

: : :

Sam to Sebastian: yo borat

Sebastian to Sam: …what’s that supposed to mean

Sam to Sebastian: oh rong number sry

: : :

Sam to Blaine: yo borat

Blaine to Sam: Stop calling me that. :(

Blaine to Sam: But yeah?

Sam to Blaine: dont come bak to your apartment

Blaine to Sam: ….what why

Blaine to Sam: Are you in our house???? Why???

Blaine to Sam: I’m on my way back w/ Tina rn?? We bought groceries

Blaine to Sam: I got that peanut butter ice cream you like btw :)

Blaine to Sam: But also seriously why are you at our apartment

Sam to Blaine: ice cream.. awsome :)

Sam to Blaine: oh fuck wait

: : :

“Dude,” Sam says, shaking his head from where he’s sitting at Blaine and Tina’s kitchen table, pens and textbooks and poster boards strewn out across from him. Beside him is Sebastian, seemingly summarising notes from a laptop -- a laptop Blaine recognises as the one from Sebastian’s dorm room via the stickers -- onto a pad of paper. “I told you not to come back home.”

“Why is he in our house?” Blaine says, putting down the bag of groceries slowly. “Why are _you_ in our house, even?”

“Oh!” Sam grins and nudges Sebastian with his shoulder. “We’re doing a group project together. For psych class. Sebastian’s great; he does all the writing and reading and stuff. ‘Cause dyslexia.”

Blaine blinks. “That still doesn’t explain why either of you are here. In my home.”

“My home, too,” Tina adds, brushing past him to start putting away frozen pizzas.

Sam frowns, and says to Sebastian, “Dude, you were right. He _is_ mad.”

Sebastian shrugs like the words mean nothing to him. “I’m always right.”

Blaine shakes his head as he follows Tina to the counter to start putting away the shopping. “Are you just going to keep ignoring the question?”

“Oh,” Sam puts the marker he’s holding down, and turns in his chair to watch Blaine as he walks past him. “The frat house is too loud to get any work done, and Sebastian’s roommate is a dick about him having people over.”

“You don’t have a roommate,” Blaine says, accusatory. Sebastian finally looks up from his notes to smirk blithely at Blaine.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Blaine frowns. “I was in your dorm the other day: you have a single. You’re lying.” 

Sebastian looks unbothered at being exposed for his perjury. “I switched rooms,” he says easily.

“That’s not true!” Blaine says, shaking his head. He takes the bags of salad Tina is handing to him unconsciously, his gaze still fixed on Sebastian. “What’s the -- ugh, why are you here, though? What have you done?” He whips his head around the room, suddenly tense. “Did you take something?”

At this, Sebastian seems to finally take offence. “What? No. I’m literally just trying to get a good grade in my psych class -- the class I’m _literally_ only taking for my science credit -- and fish-lips over here is the only tolerable person I know in it.”

Sam either doesn’t register the insult, or he doesn’t care, smiling fondly at being called ‘tolerable’. “Thanks, Sebastian.”

“You’re not funny, you know that, right?” Blaine snaps back.

“I’m not trying to be.”

Tina takes the salad bags out of Blaine’s hands and bends to put them in the bottom of the fridge, before pointing at both of them. “No more arguing. Not while I’m putting away groceries. Go on, out. Take it to the corridor.”

Sebastian rises suddenly at her words, and begins heading for the front door. Blaine gapes for a moment, his eyes switching between Tina -- who, he can forget, can look rather fierce, and is still pointing at the doorway and frowning sternly -- and Sam, who is determinedly avoiding his gaze. “You can’t kick me out --”

“Outside,” Tina repeats, brandishing a bag of shredded cheese. Blaine tries his best to send her an icy glare, before he closes his mouth and follows Sebastian outside, pulling the door nearly closed behind him.

“What is your _problem_ with me?” he starts as soon as Sebastian turns to face him.

Sebastian’s arms are crossed over him tightly, and he regards Blaine coldly for a second before speaking. “You wanna act like _you_ weren’t the one to start that argument in there? I wasn’t doing anything. I was _helping Sam._ ” 

Blaine narrows his eyes. “I genuinely, _genuinely_ doubt that’s what you were _actually_ doing.”

“I have fucking science credits to complete, Blaine, you’re ‘genuinely’ _dense_ \--”

“Just tell me!” Blaine interrupts him, raising an arm in exasperation. “Tell me what I’ve done that makes you feel the need to make my life a living fucking hell.”

Sebastian raises a patronising eyebrow as Blaine talks. “What, you mean besides the fact that you’re captain of the enemy --“

“No, Sebastian,” Blaine takes a step forward, his eyebrows knitted together. Sebastian’s taller than him, and from this angle, his head is blocking out the fluorescent lights suspended from the corridor ceiling behind him and scattering the rays across his shoulders, like a halo. It peeks through the strands of his hair and makes them appear lighter. 

“Aside from that,” he continues viciously. “You _obviously_ have something else against me, and honestly? I would love to know what it is. I’m _dying_ to know. So just let it all out,” he gestures in front of him, as if marking the space for Sebastian to put his words. “Go on.”

Sebastian cocks his head to the side, as if in thought, before he smiles slowly and cruelly. “Fine, then. _Fine._ I mean, where should I start? Like, you mean _aside_ from the fact that you’re a whiney, self-absorbed egomaniac? Or maybe I don’t like you because you’re a ginormous hypocrite or -- maybe, just _maybe,_ Blaine, I just don’t like you. In general.” Sebastian has mock-surprise on his face, and a light modulation to his tone, and his hands are held out in front of him like he’s just discovered something brilliant. “Could you _imagine_ that, Blaine? Somebody just not enjoying your presence? Could you even _fathom_?”

“Jesus,” Blaine says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are such an asshole.”

“You asked.”

“Fuck you, Sebastian,” Blaine spits, backing away from him again. “Fuck you.” He turns again to go inside, but then thinks better of it, turning to say finally, “You know, I wish we’d never met. I wish you’d never come to this fucking university on your -- shitty scholarship. Maybe if you’d learn to not be such a spoiled brat, your parents will actually want something to do with you, and then neither of us would have to know each other.”

“You think it’s fun for me to have some uptight, whiney twink on my ass all the time? ‘Cause it’s not.” Sebastian lifts his chin, but the underlying crispness of his tone indicates he is hurt by the remark, after all. Blaine pushes down any guilt he feels; Sebastian deserves this, he reminds himself. “You just -- see me, and you’re suddenly filled with some urge to come over and start _nagging_ at me. It’s so irritating.”

Blaine grits his teeth. “I should slap you right now.”

Sebastian’s eyes flicker, before the anger on his face is replaced with resignation. He lets out an amused huff, closing his eyes. “That’s hot.”

Blaine resists the urge to follow through. “I think you should go.”

Sebastian looks over his face once, before sighing and looking away. “Fine.”

“Now.” Blaine continues, straightening himself up. “Go now. And I’ll have Sam drop your stuff --”

“I need my house keys _at least,_ psychopath,” Sebastian interrupts him, narrowing his eyes. “Jesus, has anybody ever told you you have issues with control?” 

Sebastian strides past him before Blaine can reply, slipping back into the apartment through the open crack where the door had been left slightly ajar; Blaine’s anger begins to tamp down and be replaced with embarrassment as he realises Sam and Tina must have overheard the argument -- not because he feels as though he was out of line, but...

Maybe he’s just feeling everything ten times stronger because he’s still angry, but there’s still something humiliating about following Sebastian back inside and having Tina and Sam both send him wary looks from where they’re standing next to each other near the kitchen counters.

He watches Sebastian grab his backpack from beside the dining table, tugging on the zipper near-violently and putting away his laptop, the pad of paper and one of the textbooks. When he pulls it closed again, the fury in his action makes the zipper catch and he pauses, closing his eyes again in a silent gesture, and Blaine wonders for a second if the bag will be the final straw, before Sebastian adjusts the way the bag is sitting on the table to zip it up finally. 

Then, he looks up suddenly, meets Blaine’s eyes for a split second and, with a final look around the room, as if taking in the decoration and personality of it for the first time, he nods at Sam once, flickers his eyes over Blaine again acrimoniously, and pushes past him to leave.

Everyone stands in silence as the front door slams and the muffled footsteps of Sebastian fade away down the corridor.

“Blaine, that was --” Sam begins, but Blaine cuts him off with a raise of his hand.

“I _really_ don’t want to talk about it,” he hisses as he passes him on the way to his bedroom.

He cuts into the interior of his room, pulling at the zipper on his hoodie and furiously tugging it off before he’s even made it two steps inside -- it gets caught on his arms, as things only ever do when you’re already irritated -- and he balls it up and throws it at the ground in frustration, the cotton making a soft whipping noise. Blaine kicks at it before he toes his sneakers off, kicking them away somewhere near his bed. He drags his hands through his hair a few times before covering his face and sinking to the floor, shifting until he’s lying on his back. Trying to control his breathing is hard; it bursts out of him in sharp little angry puffs, and his chest aches with both it and the earlier tightness from the argument.

Sebastian is confusing. He’s so much more than that, really -- harsh, relentless, talented, sarcastic, intelligent, brave in many ways and cowardly in more -- but most of all, he’s confusing.

Blaine has truly never met anybody like him in his life -- someone who will argue with him one minute and then flirt with him the next, as if nothing happened, as if Blaine would ever _respond_ to that -- or even _know_ how to respond to that.

He twists his fingers on his stomach, and then pulls them apart again. He briefly considers going down to the gym -- the place where he has a membership isn’t too far from their apartment, and he really feels like hitting a punching bag, or _anything_ \-- but the fear of running into Sebastian on the street again is too grand. He doesn’t know what he’d say, or where he’d look. Would they speak? Would Sebastian even meet his eye, or would he pretend not to notice him? -- or would it be the other way around? He feels embarrassed at even the prospect of Sebastian seeing him in workout clothes, like if he’s seen in any state other than perfect, Sebastian’s bizarre opinionship will change of him further -- as if he hasn’t just worked himself up into a furor in the hallway outside his Goddamn apartment.

Sebastian brings out a strange, foreign side in him: a weird, blind, embarrassing fury. Blaine has always been someone who wears his heart on his sleeve -- and he will attest to that -- but with Sebastian, Blaine feels both the need to convey to him how _irritating_ he finds him and exactly why, but also an odd need to prove himself -- to prove himself as everything Sebastian says he isn’t: as relaxed, as funny, as smart and hardworking and loyal. He doesn’t care about Sebastian’s opinion, not really, not _Sebastian’s_ \-- but rather what Sebastian represents to him; people who dislike him. People who don’t know him or choose not to know him, or, worse, people who know him and still don’t like him.

No, it’s not about Sebastian. Not really, or at all.

: : :

From: Archer, Sarah

To: Anderson, Blaine; Smythe, Sebastian; Lopez, Santana; Cohen-Chang, Tina + 32 others…

Subject: Regarding teams and coaches

Hello everybody,

As many of you know, recently one of our members of faculty and coaches decided to part ways with the NYU cheer program. This has led to much discussion in and around the sports and PE departments here at NYU, and after much deliberation, we have come to the difficult decision to disband the NYU White Dolphins, and merge with the NYU Violets.

Due to the restrictions placed upon cheerleading teams and the cap limiting numbers of members by the NCA, this obviously means we will be cutting some of you from the team. 

This will not be an easy decision; each of you is an asset and a credit to your team, and each of you brings a special something to each performance. 

Try-outs for a place on the new team will take place next Thursday, on the main field, at 3pm.

Please email if you have any further questions on the matter, especially regarding scholarships.

Best,

Coach Archer

: : :

From: Anderson, Blaine

To: Cohen-Chang, Tina

Subject: i hate it here

[This message has been left intentionally blank]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this was a movie told from seb’s pov we’d probably have some really angsty shots of him walking home with paramore’s “all i wanted” playing in the background. omg someone stop me before i create a movie soundtrack in the notes of each chapter  
> also, a second shoutout to elsie (killerleo) for giving me the usb idea and also for being generally awesome :)

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on tumblr! :)  
> himbosamevans.tumblr.com


End file.
